The silence in the narrow lane lasted exactly three seconds. Then, the chaos of gully cricket resumed.
"No ball!" Siddharth yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at Arjun. "His elbow bent! That was a throw!"
"It was straight!" Vicky shouted back, stepping in front of Arjun. "You just missed it because you're blind!"
Arjun stood at the bowling mark, rubbing the heavy tennis ball against his oversized shorts. He looked at Siddharth. The older boy was rattled, shifting his weight nervously.
Arjun felt a sharp, subtle pinch in his lower back.
It wasn't a serious injury, but it was enough. It was a reminder. He was eight years old. His bones were soft. His muscles were undeveloped. He had just bowled two balls at a speed his body wasn't ready to handle yet. If he kept trying to impress these kids with raw pace, he'd wake up tomorrow with a stress fracture.
Slow down, he told himself. You don't need to break the door down. Just pick the lock.
He ran in for the next ball. This time, he didn't snap his body. He kept it smooth and gentle. He rolled his fingers across the ball slightly—an off-cutter.
The ball floated out slower than Siddharth expected. The older boy, anticipating another rocket, swung his bat too early, trying to heave it out of the lane.
He missed completely. The ball dipped and hit the middle stump drawn on the shutter.
Clang.
"Clean bowled!" Vicky screamed, doing a victory lap around the parked scooters.
Arjun didn't celebrate. He just rotated his right shoulder, testing the joint. It felt loose, but weak.
"I'm done," Arjun said, tossing the ball to Vicky. "Homework."
"What? We just started winning! You can't go!" Vicky protested.
"Ma will kill me," Arjun lied. "See you tomorrow."
He walked away from the game, ignoring Siddharth's grumbles about "flukes." As he climbed the dark, paan-stained staircase to his second-floor flat, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by the cold, hard reality of his situation.
He entered the flat. The smell of tadka—cumin and mustard seeds hitting hot oil—filled the air. His father was sitting on the sofa, reading The Times of India. His mother was in the kitchen, the pressure cooker whistling aggressively.
"Wash your hands and feet, Arjun," his father said without looking up from the newspaper. "Did you finish your Maths homework?"
"Yes, Baba," Arjun replied automatically.
He went into the small bathroom and turned on the tap. The water was lukewarm. He looked at his feet. They were encased in cheap white canvas shoes from Bata. No arch support. No cushioning. The soles were as thin as cardboard.
Problem number one, he thought, wiggling his toes. Bowling on concrete in these shoes is a disaster waiting to happen. My shins will be screaming in a week.
He walked into the bedroom he shared with his parents. He sat at the small study desk in the corner. It was cluttered with textbooks—Balbharati English, Mathematics, History.
He pushed the books aside and pulled out a fresh, blank notebook. He grabbed a pen.
He needed a plan. He couldn't just play gully cricket and hope to become a professional. He had to build this body from scratch.
He wrote at the top of the page: THE PLAN.
He looked at his skinny arms.
1. Strength: He couldn't lift weights; he was too young. It had to be bodyweight. Pushups, squats, lunges. 2. Diet: This was the hard part. 3. Equipment: He needed real running shoes.
"Dinner!" his mother called out.
Arjun walked to the small dining table. His plate was waiting: a mountain of white rice, a bowl of yellow dal, and some potato bhaji.
Arjun looked at the plate. In his old life, he would have categorized this immediately: 90% carbohydrates, very little protein. It was great for energy, but terrible for building muscle repair.
"Baba," Arjun said, picking up his spoon. "Can I join a cricket coaching camp? The one at Shivaji Park?"
His father stopped chewing. He looked at Arjun over his rimless glasses. The silence stretched thin. In 2006, cricket was a religion, but for a middle-class boy, it was a distraction. Studies came first. Engineering or Medicine. That was the path.
"Summer vacation is starting next week," his father said slowly. "I was thinking of sending you to typing class. Or abacus."
"I want to play," Arjun said, keeping his voice steady. "I won't let my grades drop. I promise."
His father sighed, dipping his roti into the dal. "We'll see. Coaching costs money. traveling to Dadar every day costs money. And what is the future? One in a crore plays for India. The rest become clerks."
"I won't be a clerk," Arjun said. He didn't say it with the petulance of a child, but with a strange calmness.
His father blinked, surprised by the tone. He looked at his wife, then back at Arjun. "We'll see," he repeated, softer this time. "Finish your rice."
Arjun ate. He forced himself to eat everything. Even the extra rice his mother heaped onto his plate. He needed the fuel.
Later that night, the lights were turned off. The only sound was the whirring fan and his father's gentle snoring.
Arjun lay on his mattress on the floor. He waited until he was sure his parents were asleep. Then, he quietly rolled off the mattress onto the hard mosaic floor.
He checked the glowing hands of the alarm clock. 10:30 PM.
Start now, he thought.
He couldn't do much. But he could start the basics. He got into a plank position on his elbows.
His small arms trembled immediately. His core, weak and untrained, screamed in protest. Gravity felt heavier than he remembered.
Hold it, he gritted his teeth. Don't drop.
Ten seconds. Twenty seconds.
His body shook violently. Sweat pricked his forehead. It was humiliating. In his old life, he could hold this for minutes while watching TV. Now, thirty seconds felt like a marathon.
He collapsed onto the cool floor, gasping for air silently so he wouldn't wake his parents.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was weak. He was small. He had no money and barely any equipment.
But as he looked up at the ceiling fan, Arjun grinned in the dark.
He knew something no one else did. He knew how the game was about to change. And for the first time in a long time, he wasn't looking back at what he had lost. He was looking forward to what he was going to build.
He got back up on his elbows.
Set two.